


Omnia

by behindthec



Category: Broadway RPF, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman, Wicked RPF
Genre: F/F, chenzel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindthec/pseuds/behindthec
Summary: So who are you now?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A handful of moments before and after the _Wicked_ 15th anniversary show. Compatible with [this hot mess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150485/chapters/6836828).
> 
> Just felt like the world needed a little Chenzel—and that maybe, after all this time, they've gone a shade darker than Light Blue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _Omnia vincit amor._ ](https://www.bulgari.com/en-us/products.html?root_level=316&sign=85)

“New perfume.”

Kristin smiles. “Figured it was time.”

“Why’s that?”

Her smile tightens, locks—the truth poorly guarded behind it. Idina doesn’t anticipate its release, but Kristin has never balked from a challenge.

“I needed to be someone you didn’t know.”

“Did I ever?”

In the heavy space between held breaths, amid the whiff of passive aggression, Kristin’s smile bends and breaks.

Idina picks up the pieces, mending the thread that suspends them, and takes the bait.

“So who are you now?”

“Oh, honey,” Kristin sighs. “It didn’t work.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _”Couldn’t you have asked them for another?”_

She doesn’t think to knock. They haven’t in years. What do they have left to hide, after all, after everything?

Idina hadn’t counted on what she was still hiding from herself.

It’s not her dressing room, where she finds her, but a back wing of the Marquis with sweeping ceilings, near empty but for an oversized full-length mirror set diagonally in a corner, and—

And Kristin.

It’s not Kristin she sees, really, not at first. At first, there is only white.

A strapless silhouette of snow, dusted with sparkle... and Kristin underneath.

In a single glance, Idina is wrenched from the present without consent, spiraling fifteen years backward in time to a long-forgotten bed in a long-forgotten apartment—when the woman before her now lay wrapped in her arms, golden skin bathed in Manhattan moonlight as the Chianti on their tongues kept them dancing over words until dawn.

It was only like this, in rare, silent moments of exhausted inebriation, that their minds had been allowed to run free.

 _Marry me,_  she’d said when they were nearly asleep.

 _Yes ma’am,_ Kristin had mumbled into her neck.  _In Italy, in the vineyard on the label._

_I can see you._

_How’s my dress?_

_Stunning._

_Well, duh._

Oh, god, how she’d loved her.

She’s still there, body and spirit, when Kristin catches her eye in reflection, an unreal vision beneath the softened tarnish of aged glass. For a moment, it’s safe—a whole world of distance between them, like watching her on a screen, half a planet away.

But when Kristin turns to face her, there is nothing but the trembling breadth of air between them—thinning oxygen and the heavy pulse of blood through her veins.

Kristin grants her a frozen slice of time, allows herself to be absorbed, stamped into memory and filed away in the corner of Idina’s mind that stays locked until a moment like this storms through, heaves open the door.

Her hair, gentle waves framing her face, is not the same long, loose curtain that had fanned across Idina’s shoulder in the middle of the night. Her figure, whittled by stress from supple curves into tighter lines, is not the one that had moulded itself to Idina’s embrace. Her striking features, anxiously tweaked under the pressures of Hollywood idealism, cannot be the ones Idina had kissed a thousand times, fifteen years past—their natural perfection obscured by a mask of tucks and toxins.

And yet, for all that Idina feels, she is utterly unchanged.

She is the woman who lives in Idina’s heart, standing before her in shimmering white, exactly as Idina had imagined since the very first night.

Idina doesn’t realize she’s begun to cry until Kristin’s face breaks, all facades washed clean away—until Kristin swallows hard and says, simply—

“I know.”

Idina steps forward, and Kristin closes the gap. In sync, still, always, before and after time.

Sense memory draws their hands together, Kristin’s thumb tracing circles over Idina’s. They’ll find this place again, later, [on stage](https://66.media.tumblr.com/61caf353d5dc76e6838e1d622a155d8f/tumblr_phegd9wQ6V1w85n3ao5_540.gif)—the smallest permissible display of intimacy; their own private defiance of fate.

Idina touches the fabric, one finger catching on a rhinestone, heart catching in her chest, but no one to catch her.

“Couldn’t you have asked them for another?”

Tears sparkle in Kristin’s eyes, a heartbreaking complement to the gleaming jewels, as she squeezes Idina’s hand.

“I didn’t want another.”

They watch each other helplessly, with nothing to say but, “God damn it, Kristi,” and they’re embracing—tightly, but careful, so as not to spoil their costumes. It’s not right, not enough, uncomfortable and restrained. Not how it should be, not how it was. The unfamiliar perfume pulls the air close around them, but beneath it, at this distance, Idina can distinguish more recognizable hints of lotion and shampoo that leave her as broken as ever.

“I thought of this,” Idina whispers into her hair. “I pictured it for so long.”

Kristin holds her tighter.

There is no hesitation, when they separate, before Kristin’s elegant fingers are cupping her face and pulling her forward, kissing her firmly on the lips. It is too easy to kiss back, like they do it every day, like not a moment has passed since the last. Kristin’s lips are as warm and pliant as she remembers, and even as she aches to push further, to feel their tongues entwine, she finds the ache has dulled—the urgency of the years reined in by an agonizing amount of practice.

By now, they’ve accepted that it is this—only this, and always this, and never more.

It is torture to pull apart.

Beyond the door, as Idina dabs gingerly at her eyes to avoid another hour in the makeup chair, the bustle of NBC crew and Marquis stagehands grows louder, pulling them back into the cold of reality.

“I should go.”

Kristin smiles. “Yeah. Bad luck to see the bride...”

She can’t finish.

Idina braces herself with one hand on the door, squeezing the cold metal knob tight enough to hurt, tight enough to stop her striding back across the room for another mistake, as if her arsenal isn’t overflowing already.

She meets Kristin’s eyes and shrugs.

“You’re worth the risk.”


End file.
